


One, Ten, Twenty Summers

by Alien_Ariel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, Drama, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Muggle-born, OC is bad at magic, Slice of Life, adding tags as needed, assume all characters appear, at least the kind that involves actual spellweaving, but other relationships happen in the background, first year through adulthood, interconnected short stories, it happens but I'm not gonna describe it, main pairing is Neville and Wil, muggle-born OC, no descriptions of underage smut, no real overarching plot other than Wil going through Hogwarts, not until characters are of-age, technically not muggle-born but she was raised that way, teenage angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-29 05:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15065687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alien_Ariel/pseuds/Alien_Ariel
Summary: Even my own family was different from me now, because I had become something they couldn’t begin to comprehend. If the way my father had looked at me as I’d boarded the Hogwarts Express and closed the door behind me was any indication, he didn’t even know who I was anymore. The only thing that still tied me to him was the horrible name he’d given me, a name I constantly did my best to separate myself from: Wilhelmina Abbey.It was the only thing I brought to Hogwarts, and it wasn’t enough. I’d be swept away in the currents of madness unless I could find some kind of purchase.I wasn't brave, so I wouldn't go looking for it.I wasn't friendly, so finding it in another person was unlikely.I wasn't ambitious, so I couldn't chase it down.But I was wise enough to know no one else knew that. I could make myself into something, into someone, more than what I was.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------Hogwarts gave Wil the awakening she didn't know she needed. And she'll take what she can get.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! Thanks for checking out my fic. This isn't my first HP fic, but as far as this site is concerned it is. I have a tendency to constantly rehash the idea of following a student, someone other than the important ones, through her entire school career at Hogwarts. She's got a different name and backstory every time I try again, but this time I feel like I've done enough digging to find a compelling story. I sincerely hope you like it!
> 
> Not sure how long this will be, since I've just picked out key moments in the books that I want to elaborate on and show through Wil's eyes. Her presence will end up changing some things, but nothing too major - no Mary Sue here. Each chapter will be varying degrees of length; most are just slices of her life.
> 
> I do also recommend songs for each chapter. Most are just for flavor, but later on others are directly referenced (which I will link to so you can follow along). I do also have a tumblr, where I'll post occasional supplement material and you can also ask me things if you'd like. Link at the end of the chapter.

**One, Ten, Twenty Summers**

_Chapter_ _1- Prologue_

[ _“_ _Bridges_ _” by Koresma_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QLoHNSoOklU)

 

It’s basically holy writ that, when writing a memoir of your time at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you begin with your sorting ceremony.

You must go into great detail about your nervousness and the raw excitement of the moment: the thrill of terror running through your small, 11-year-old body as you stand before the line of teachers and carefully eye the three-legged stool and the patchwork sorting hat sitting atop it. Bonus points if you were in the same year as Harry Potter, such as I was, and you have the added complication of having heard a rumor that the sorting involved facing a troll.

You would then, assuming you are also a muggle-born such as myself, amend that you don’t actually know what a troll is, but can fill in the blanks rather well anyway because of muggle mythology. Adding, of course, that you were still clumsy with the word “muggle” despite your fluent use of it here, because, again, you are muggle-born and knew no more about wizard life than you did about the socio-political structure of Belize (or some other such distant and arbitrary reference).

Maybe you’d also find a way to sneak in that this country’s socio-political structure, as well as everything else about it, was just as foreign to you as Belize, because you are from America, the Appalachian hills of rural West Virginia to be very exact, and had never even been in a plane before this adventure, much less in one that had taken you all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. And how you had said your step-mother’s home country of Wales was the same as England, and how she had kindly advised you they were actually very different and suggested not mentioning that to the residents.

Of how she had called trekking across the ocean as “going across the pond,” which had made you giggle despite your nervousness. How your father had grunted softly and turned back to his newspaper, even though it didn’t look like he was actually reading it but, rather, glancing at you with barely-checked trepidation.

But back to the sorting, because that’s how you always start stories like this.

You would make a point of looking into the ceiling of The Great Hall, as this is one of Hogwarts’s main attractions, even if it was truer that you were too terrified to look away from the eyes of Professor McGonagall, who was doing a masterful job of looking stern and withholding any further information about the ceremony. That hat had sung a cheerful song which you surely should have paid attention to, if not for the sneaking suspicion within you that you’d be first to be called if this whole thing was being done alphabetically.

How your name, being at the start of the alphabet as it was, had inadvertently made you adaptive, but also impulsive. How you had needed to learn quickly, should you be the first one called to perform.

And then, no sooner than the hat finishing its song that you couldn’t concentrate on, how you were proven to be perceptive and were being summoned forth by the imposing deputy headmistress. You’d add that her commanding appearance was more of a veneer, painted over her core nature of caring for her students, especially the underdogs and misfits.

This, naturally, organically characterized you as such; if the whole fish-out-of-water angle wasn’t already driven home.

If you were like me, you’d curse your name, a name given by your father, a man so straight-laced and uptight that he’d given a baby a ten-letter name that her friends couldn’t even spell, much less pronounce. You had probably cursed this name as you ascended the plinth to the stool and the sorting hat—both your first and last name if you had one like mine.

You’d then describe the memory of receiving your acceptance letter, in that weighty parchment envelope with the shining emerald ink and sealed with burgundy wax and the school’s crest, because your name earning sniggers all around you would remind you of your best friend. How he couldn’t spell your name, had just called you by a one-syllable nickname. How that had both robbed you of your identity but also given you another.

You’d explain that no one ever sent you letters, except for maybe Jonah, but that the letter being addressed to your full given name immediately disqualified your friend as being the one to have sent it to you. You’d be sure to add that this was as worrying to your father as it was mystifying for you. And how this wonder had turned to frothing anger when you realized he’d already opened and read the letter.

How he’d said the letter was about you, but it was instead _for you._ And how invasive, but totally in-character, it was for him to deny you the chance to see it first.

And then you’d be brought back into the moment as you noticed another voice echoing in the chambers of your mind, in an accent unlike your own, because—of course—you aren’t from here. You’d be sure to remind everyone that you’re alone in this strange land and place.

The sorting hat would comment on how in your head you are, and how he had exactly the place for people like that. Maybe you’d remember a little of that odd song, where you’d perked up ever so slightly at the mention of a place for those of wit, learning, and a ready mind: for people like you. And how you wouldn’t be able to remember the name for that place until the sorting hat was announcing it to the rest of the gathered mass.

RAVENCLAW.

You’d be sure to add that you’d sleepily questioned Professor McGonagall if there anything you needed to do before removing the hat and settling it softly back on the stool. Her small quirk of a smile would let people know that you were a little different from your peers and you’d proceed to join the cheering table of blue and bronze as though walking through a dream.

But it was a strange kind of dream: a dream that was amazingly fantastical but somehow not gripping you.

You had sat down between two boys, obviously both older than you, since you were the first to be sorted in your year. They had asked your name and you’d recited it again, wondering if they had already forgotten it from when McGonagall had called you, if they hadn’t bothered to listen at all, or if it was just that obnoxiously long that they couldn’t repeat it.

But you hadn’t asked theirs in return, because you simply didn’t care to know them.

You had grown very tired, from both the exhausting trip from America, and then the journey on the train. Everyone will wonder how such a magical— _ha ha_ —adventure could possibly be tiring. Surely the excitement would have been enough to sustain you, to make you pay attention to the rest of the sorting and clap along with your peers as more of your class was sorted into your house.

But you were just so depleted, in both energy and spirit, that you couldn’t be bothered.

You were so convinced that this feeling—this waking dream—was more akin to a wandering hallucination. Like that time last year Jonah and your little brother Perry had dared you to eat an unusual berry you’d never seen before. How it had made your stomach ache and your head swim. Like that time you’d stayed up three hours past your bedtime, trying to steel yourself to sneak out of your attic bedroom but had instead spent the whole time yo-yoing over whether or not you had the courage to actually do it. In the end you hadn’t. All you’d ended up doing was making yourself overly groggy and ill-tempered the next day. How your only souvenir had been a failed math quiz and Jonah giggling at you for not meeting up with him—because he, of course, had been brave enough to follow through.

But this time you hadn’t eaten something bad for you or stayed up past your bed time. This dream state was a product of a different kind of hallucinogenic, and one ironically much less interesting:

Alienation.

Surrounded by people and somehow still alone.

Introduced to a new group of peers, some five-hundred of them, but also completely separate.

Even your own family was different from you now, because you had become something they couldn’t begin to comprehend.

If the way my father had looked at me as I’d boarded the Hogwarts Express and closed the door behind me was any indication, he didn’t even know who I was anymore. The only thing that still tied me to him was the horrible name he’d given me, a name I constantly did my best to separate myself from: Wilhelmina Abbey.

It was the only thing I brought to Hogwarts, and it wasn’t enough. I’d be swept away in the currents of madness unless I could find some kind of purchase. But I was just too tired to try that night, and I’d fallen asleep right there at the Ravenclaw house table, the sorting and feast happening around me: like some immoveable, silent totem.

Tomorrow was another day, though.


	2. First Year: Potions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for any syntax errors. Editing as I go. Just wanna get the chapters I've got posted (before I forget).
> 
> Hope you're enjoying so far!

**One, Ten, Twenty Summers**

_Chapter_ _2- First Year: Potions_

[ _“_ _Outskirts of Paradise_ _” by Bad Suns_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8whRNI-G8KE)

Out of everyone in my class, I’m pretty sure I took the longest to adjust to life at Hogwarts. I think I’d fallen asleep during the start of term feast and, a week into my classes, I’d still had yet to “wake up.” Thankfully my natural sense of direction had made negotiating my way around the labyrinthine corridors of the castle fairly unchallenging. With how clouded my mind remained, I was basically doing it in my sleep. It was the one thing I was managing to succeed at.

Well, at least in comparison to my classmates.

I still hadn’t really bothered to learn anyone’s names, since I was still expecting to be revived and find myself in our local hospital any moment now. The only thing I was looking forward to was my step-mom Wynny hugging me and telling me not to let Perry pressure me into eating every odd thing he found in the woods behind our house.

Once dad had had the chance to ream me, of course. That came first.

So I floated from room to room during the school hours, returning to the Ravenclaw common room every evening after swiping myself some dinner from The Great Hall so I could eat on my own. I kept to myself—considerably easier once people had stopped trying to get to know me; it hadn’t taken them long to realize I wasn’t really here.

During classes I would try my hardest to at least pay attention, otherwise this hallucination was little more than an uninteresting rehashing of my typical life as it already was. I found myself lacking in basically everything, though.

You’d think, this being my own imagining, that I’d at least be proficient in magic, if not accomplished.

But no, I was having no luck. Most of my peers weren’t faring all that much better, but at the end of the week I was still the only one in my house—perhaps my whole year—that had yet to show a bit of magical prowess. I would stare down at my wand (a pliant 12” Hawthorn wand with a Phoenix feather core, as the box states in spidery cursive) and wonder why it wasn’t doing anything. At least other people would get theirs to spark or make puttering noises, like a stubborn engine not quite firing on all cylinders.

But mine was dormant to the point of me wondering if it weren’t hollow. Or just a nicely polished but completely normal stick that wandmaker, Mr. Ollivander, had found pretty enough to try selling to the first gullible idiot that had stopped by.

At every bell, I’d place my wand back in its box, fold the delicate tissue paper back over it, and stow it in my school bag. I was the only one doing this.

But then, I was also the only one here by accident. It felt like breaking that wand would break whatever dream I’d found myself in. And, as disinterested as I appeared, I wasn’t ready to leave just yet.

In my off hours, when the common room was too crowded with people that might decide to take another crack at me, I would wander outside. It felt the most familiar to me: reminiscent of the hills and fields and woods of our acres of land in West Virginia. I didn’t have the same southern drawl as other people from our town; I still sounded American, but more like my father than our neighbors. This accent, or lack thereof compared to my mostly British peers, had singled me out pretty much from the get-go.

It was basically the only thing anyone would try to talk to me about at this point.

One girl had made mention of an interesting thing—a first-year Gryffindor with hair so frazzled and bushy she looked like she had stuck her finger in an electrical socket. Not that she’d be stupid enough to do so, obviously being the smartest of our class already. And, of course, not that there was any electricity in the castle.

Anyway. She had told me it was odd that I’d been accepted at Hogwarts, and not because I was starting to doubt I had any magic in me at all, but rather because America had its own wizardry school: Ilvermorny. I had wondered how she even knew this much, being a muggle-born such as myself, but muttered that the school thought I had a legacy at the school.

It had been part of my acceptance letter: some official-looking certificate that congratulated me on my family’s status at the school.

The girl has excitedly asked me which of my parents has gone here, but I had to disappoint her, since both of my parents were decidedly non-magical. We assumed the letter had been sent in error, but, through communications with my father, it was apparently verified that someone in my family _had_ attended the school and, while I was also welcome to attend Ilvermorny instead if I chose, I was still very much a candidate for Hogwarts.

I wasn’t an idiot; I knew my father knew who in our family was magic. But that’s not to say he’d ever actually tell me.

When I wasn’t being questioned on my lineage or disappointing myself with my apparent lack of magical talent, I would roam the surrounding area and try to orient myself in the familiarity of nature. The Hogwarts grounds were vast enough that I rarely ran into anyone anyway, but also wooded enough that I could hide from anyone that might try to bother me. My owl, Waffle, would sometimes stay with me and ride on my shoulder, turning his small, round head this way and that to fully take in the scenery.

Wynny had gotten Waffle for me when we’d visited Diagon Alley, the major wizarding shopping district in England. The school had sent me an extensive list of things I’d need for the coming year and had recommended Diagon Alley as a good place to find it all. My father had only agreed to take us so he could be proven right: that this whole thing was a scam by someone associated with my birth mother—whoever she was.

Couldn’t have been her personally, since, you know, she’s dead. My father always said she’d died the way she lived, and that he’d left her, before I was even actually born, because she’d chosen that life over him. Whether or not that’s true, I was unlikely ever to know. He wouldn’t even tell me her name, despite all my asking.

I would have wondered if it were her that I’d gotten this legacy status from, if not for being very sure she couldn’t have been a witch. If she were, she shouldn’t have died as she had.

Finding myself tired from my wandering feet and my meandering mind, I sat down alongside the shore of The Black Lake. I’d heard a giant squid lived in it. Well, _overheard_. I was eavesdropping on a set of cute redhaired twins that were taunting their little brother, a boy in my year, that they’d throw him in for the squid to eat if he ever embarrassed them.

The waters were calm, the surface unbroken and reflecting the low-hanging clouds and the sun, just barely cresting over the horizon, but I thought I might have seen a tentacle way off in the distance. It only looked small from perspective; if it were right next to me, it’d look to be about the size of a tree trunk. It submerged as quickly as I’d noticed it and didn’t seem likely to resurface. I waited just a few minutes to be sure, but finally resigned myself to eating a bit of breakfast once I realized the squid had probably gone off to do the same.

Just as I had unwrapped my morning selection of breads and cheese, Waffle clamped down painfully on my shoulder and took to the sky. I watched him, feeling a little melancholic, assuming he’d decided to go back to the owlery. However, he had instead gone over to bother a giant of a man a ways down the shoreline. With one final insult, he landed on the stranger’s arm instead.

“Hey!” I cried jealously, standing and running toward the two. Waffle looked unbothered with my outburst as the man fed him a smallish owl treat, which was still a little too large for an Oriental Bay Owl. I imagine he probably just couldn’t break off a smaller piece with hands as large as his; he was towering over me at almost my entire height over again.

“Sorry about tha’. This l’il one yours?” he asked me as Waffle, looking rather pleased with himself, came to settle once more on my shoulder.

“Yes,” I answered, pride somewhat wounded, “Not that he seems to think so.”

“You can’t be mad at owls. Free spirits, they are,” the man replied, chuckling a little at my sour expression, “They always remember their masters, though.”

“If you say so,” I mumbled glumly, feeling a sting of rejection that, while probably undue, hurt all the more having come from my one companion here.

“Wha’s wrong?” I heard the man ask me, making me aware that I was suddenly crying. Oh no, not now. Not here.

“N-nothing,” I stuttered, turning my hand and forcefully smacking myself across the face. I had meant to brush the tears away, possibly hinting I had something in my eye, but had instead gone to a familiar action I’d use to bring myself back to the present.

“Hey, hey now. Don do tha’,” the man said, reaching over to grab my wrist in one of his shovel-sized hands. I didn’t fight him, feeling a deep shame settle in my stomach. That’s not something I let other people see.

“I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine,” I repeated, a rhythmless mantra, as the tears finally slowed. Eventually they stopped. The sun was much higher in the sky by then, and I had to assume it was well past breakfast time now.

“Are ya sure?” he persisted. Usually I’d balk at being questioned like that, but I could tell he was both nervous I _wasn’t_ ok yet and completely unsure how to talk me down. Ironically, I smiled at that.

“I’m—better,” I hesitated, realization now dawning on me that this was the first time anyone at Hogwarts had asked me if I was alright. And, if I was being honest, I _wasn’t_ quite alright yet, “Partly.”

“Why don ya come to me hut for some tea and a bit o’ breakfast?” he asked, reading my mind (and my stomach). I hesitated again, but finally released the tension in my shoulders and nodded in as small a gesture as I could, “Tha’s a girl.”

I followed the man, Rubeus Hagrid as he’d introduced himself, toward his home on the edge of the forest. He told me he was the groundskeeper and he liked the scenery, which was partially why he kept to himself out this way. I agreed that those were good reasons.

True to his word, he served me some tea in a mug as big as my head along with some ghastly biscuits. More like rocks, if you asked me, but I tried to at least make up for my previous rudeness by eating as much as I was physically able to.

Hagrid’s bloodhound Fang ended up eating what I couldn’t; eventually he just rested his massive head on my knee while Waffle cast him a truly loathsome expression. Hagrid was actually rather good with animals, often having to interact with the many varied denizens of The Forbidden Forest, and showed me how to best get Waffle to listen to me. Once I was shown the right way to do things, I found myself rather proficient and sent him off to owlery having even started to train him to come to me when called.

We chatted a little about the school and where I’d come from. I also felt comfortable enough to ask why I might not be doing so well at using my wand, but Hagrid had to lament he wasn’t very experienced with magic himself and technically wasn’t allowed to use it (the word “technically” hadn’t gone over my head, but I didn’t stress it). However, Hagrid was nothing if not encouraging, and I left with a new seed of hopefulness inside my heart.

I ended up spending quite a bit more time than I should have with Hagrid that morning and had missed my first period. It was just History of Magic however, and I very much doubted Professor Binns would notice I wasn’t present.

However, my next class that day was a double period of Potions with the Hufflepuff house. I’d heard enough about Professor Snape, the Potions Master, to understand that he would _very much_ notice if I were skipping and would also likely never forget. He’d already gone out of his way to make an example of a Gryffindor boy named Harry Potter yesterday for simply not being able to answer a single question—nevermind that it was his first class and he was basically muggle-born for as much as he seemed to know about wizarding culture—but I was not about to make things harder for myself here, hallucination or not.

If that one boy getting picked on was really that fascinating to the whole school, I didn’t want to be the next source of gossip.

I managed to be right on time—neither a late troublemaker, nor an overly-early suck up—and took a spot next to another muggle-born. He was from Hufflepuff. I didn’t know his name. He smiled at me sweetly. I think I actually returned it.

Professor Snape entered moments after I sat, defying physics and somehow closing the heavy door behind him with a snap.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,” he began, taking long but silent strides. He reached the front of the classroom, his billowing cloak catching the wind and settling slowly on the cold stone tiles. He stood beside his desk, which appeared to be straining under the weight of a multitude of fascinating instruments and delicate-looking vials, and paused for dramatic effect.

I’d seen other teachers suddenly hush a room—McGonagall came to mind—but nothing quite like the claustrophobic silence pressing on me now.

It didn’t make anyone like him, but no one could dispute that Snape knew how to get you listening.

“I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind and ensnaring the senses,” he continued theatrically. I was growing a little bored and let my eyes slide over the array of strange and grotesque ingredients lined along the walls of the room; several stirred a sense of familiarity within me and looked rather like things I’d found in the forest at home.

“I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death. But as there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic, and, thus, will fail to comprehend the machinations at play,” he proceeded. Then: “Abbey.”

Uh oh.

“Present,” I said automatically, causing a small ripple of mirth throughout the class.

“Are you though?” Snape asked snidely, a small quirk at the side of his mouth.

“Yes sir,” I persisted, still trying to refocus. A true sneer spread over Snape’s face at that. I had a feeling I’d played right into his hands.

“Well if you’re so sure about that, why don’t you come forward and show the class how to brew a Confusing Concoction?”

The good-natured chatter in the class is immediately muted and replaced with an undertone of fear. Not a good sign.

“Ok. Can I use my book?” I asked dumbly since I didn’t know what else to say. Snape’s sneer widened ever so slightly.

“Your first-year books don’t contain the instructions, so you’ll have to use this one,” he said cruelly, pulling a much thicker tome from a shelf and leafing through it. I stood from my stool as he set to getting a station prepared for me. The Hufflepuff beside me wasn’t smiling any more.

I stood before Professor Snape’s cauldron, quite a bit bigger that a student’s, and faced the rest of my class. Most looked sympathetic, for their part. I think I looked like an idiot.

Professor lit a fire and, with a sarcastic sweep of his arm over the assembly of ingredients before me, said no more than, “Well, get to it.”

I kept my mouth glued shut as I glanced down at the book— _did it say Year Three at the top??_ —and skimmed the first few instructions, fully expecting not to grasp anything written there.

But—

But this seemed completely doable.

My hands set to moving, grabbing the first few ingredients and measuring the next ones I’d need. My eyes made sure to stay a few steps ahead of where I was—lucky considering some steps needed done immediately following each other. I made note of the time from the shadowed analog clock hanging above the dungeon’s door and paced myself accordingly. I used fresh vials and tins for new ingredients, never letting things mix that shouldn’t, and dexterously poured and shuffled things around exactly as instructed.

It was clicking. I was getting it.

Eventually Snape made a disgusted noise in his throat and continued his speech, taking most of my classmates’ attentions back onto himself as I worked. I barely noticed, so engrossed in the instructions before me and the potion I was starting to make take form.

And, just before the bell sounded, I took the cauldron off its flame, just shy of the time the book recommended—I’d reasoned the consistency was exactly what the recipe stipulated and the timing must just be wrong—and smiled happily despite the tremendous hatred on my teacher’s face.

“Done, sir.”

“Quite,” was all Snape could say, but still made it as cutting as possible, “One point to Ravenclaw, then.”

The bell sounded, slightly masking the murmur of incredulity rising in the classroom. I smiled wider despite thinking I’d earned a _bit_ more than a single house point. But I knew enough to recognize a miracle when it was right before me: I’d weaseled myself a point from the head of Slytherin house. I’d survived his challenge and, in fact, had done so well even _he_ couldn’t deny it.

I was the last the leave, and was suddenly so cheerful that I dared send him another smile while packing up my books.

Maybe he saw that I’d still been asleep until just then. Maybe he recognized a sliver of talent in me. Maybe he was just impressed to have been shown up at his own game. But whatever the reason, the sneer Professor Snape returned was decidedly lacking in its usual bite.


	3. First Year: Flying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is when Wil's voice really starts to come in. While the first chapter was a memoir-style reflection and the second occurred during her "asleep period" during her first month at Hogwarts, Wil is actively trying to adjust from this chapter on. She'll start speaking more in her own style now.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

**One, Ten, Twenty Summers**

_Chapter_ _3- First Year: Flying_

[ _“_ _October_ _” by Broken Bells_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nAyZRszhqa0)

 

I feel like Thursday is a pretty unassuming day. Definitely not awful like Monday, but neither exciting like Friday and Saturday, nor with the casual laid-back nature of Sunday or even Wednesday. Thursday was a bit like Tuesday, which at least made sense for symmetry; the main difference being in that Thursday had an air of expectancy about it for the weekend.

Me being so wrapped up about the nature of each day of the week like it was some archetype in a character drama was a sure sign that I had a worry on the back burner of my mind.

And at this particular moment, that worry actually had a bit to do with Thursday. _This_ Thursday to be specific.

My year was receiving our first flying lesson on Thursday during our collective free period, since it was the only period during the week when all houses had a schedule opening. While I might typically be more compelled to visit either Hagrid or Professor McGonagall, who was quickly becoming a favorite teacher, I was instead being forced to do something that not only didn’t interest me but could actually prove dangerous.

Especially considering my track record with magic at this point.

I had a full month of schooling, and then some, under my belt now and I was still struggling worse than almost everyone else in my year. Every point I eked out of Professor Snape with my apparent proclivity for Potions, I then lost probably three times over from my other professors by failing in spectacular fashion. Well, all except for Herbology and Astronomy—and of course the aforementioned Potions. And, I guess, History of Magic; but that class was more a test of will not to succumb to sleep than an actual intellectual challenge.

I was fully expecting flying to be an absolute nightmare for me, since I couldn’t even begin to make my feather float in Charms. I imagine willing my entire self to fly would only be even harder.

With a sigh, I stood up on the tips of my toes to reach the Ravenclaw dorm entrance’s eagle knocker. It morphed to life and cleared its throat as I settled back onto my heels, rocking forward and back nervously.

“An easy one, please,” I asked uselessly. It never granted my requests.

I had become a familiar statue outside the dorm, waiting for either someone to come by that could work out the riddle or for someone to exit.

“Here you go, then,” it began indulgently, even though I knew it was just messing with me for its own amusement, “ _I stay in a corner, but travel around the world._ What am I?”

I sighed through my nostrils, keeping my mouth shut so I wouldn’t whine about the riddle. I always hoped for trivia—some of the upperclassmen said it would occasionally get bored with riddles and just posit straightforward questions instead—but I was rarely (re: never) lucky.

A moment’s thought later, and I realized my muggle knowledge was applicable here.

“A stamp,” I said, feeling a small smile as the knocker nodded and the ornate blue door swung inwards on its hinges. I wonder if someone from a purely wizarding family would even know what a stamp is? It seemed that they did all of their post via owls, which needed only an address. Did the eagle know I was a muggle-born? And, if so, did that mean it was starting to adapt to my personal strengths of knowledge? Did it do that for everyone, or was it starting to take pity on me for never being able to enter the dorms?

I settled in my dorm, climbing into my plush blue and bronze bed and drawing the curtains around me. I wanted to continue my pursuit of _Hogwarts: A History_ , which I had borrowed from Hermione Granger, who basically had it on permanent loan from the library, and turned right to the section on the Ravenclaw common room.

Nothing, unfortunately. Oh well.

I went back to where I’d left off yesterday but couldn’t get myself to concentrate. My mind was buzzing with theories on the eagle knocker and how I could get it to either ask me more muggle-related riddles or, even better, trivia on wizarding knowledge.

Even if I still couldn’t seem to _do_ magic, I was trying to compensate by listening closely during class and reading in my spare hours.

Flying, at least for the moment, was gone from my mind.

 

* * *

 

 

But then it was Thursday.

I trudged through a courtyard on my way to the backside of the castle’s grounds. Usually this is the way I’d take to visit Hagrid, but today I was on my way to a much more onerous task.

“I’d take Hagrid’s rock cakes over flying on a stupid broomstick any day,” I sighed to myself, as I was alone. I figured most of my peers, who hadn’t really bothered to get acquainted with this side of the grounds yet, had taken the more obvious but slower way down to the training fields. I arrived first, which was usually how I liked to arrive to all my classes, and was able to grab the spot I desired: the one right next to where Madam Hooch would be standing. She wasn’t here yet either, but that was fine with me.

After a few minutes I grew bored and went about entertaining myself by trying to teach myself the wand-illuminating spell: Lumos. We’d be coming up on this spell next in Defense Against the Dark Arts, arguably my worst subject after Charms, and I was hoping to get in a little extra time practicing it. Hopefully I’d then be able to accomplish the spell by the end of the unit.

By the time my peers joined me, the assembled mass looking rather large and unruly, making me again doubt the logic of a flying class like this from an entirely new angle, I hadn’t so much as made my wand spark.

“Maybe one of us is defective, Zippy,” I told my wand before stowing it back in its box and carefully putting it back in my bag on the sun-warmed grass. I’d given it a name in a bid to win its affections, remembering that Ollivander had talked about wands like they have a mind of their own. Either my efforts were in vain or it didn’t like the name I’d picked, because it did jack all. The name stuck, though.

“Talking to your wand again, are you?” a boy—Terry, I think—broke off from the main group of Ravenclaws to ask me. At my uninterested stare, not showing any sign of responding, he chuckled and resolutely took the spot beside me. I sighed and considered taking another broom spot, but figured he’d follow me. Most people still gave me quite a bit of space, but Terry had recently taken to pestering me at any moment when fleeing wasn’t an option. Classes, meals in the dining hall (since I’d been told to stop stealing food to eat by myself in the common room), and especially when I’d be on my way to retire to my dorm. He intercepted me almost every single evening in the common room.

Either he was attempting to bully me into interacting with him, which I wasn’t likely to fall to despite his efforts, or he was trying to befriend me and was just incredibly inept at it.

“One day you’ll answer me,” he muttered to me, sounding a little more genuine than I’d give him credit for. I didn’t answer because Madam Hooch had blown her whistle and was approaching us, but maybe he saw the quizzical look come over my face.

“Come on now, everyone stand by a broomstick,” Madam Hooch called over the din of excited whispering passing amongst our class, “That’s right, on the left side of the broom.”

I watched as everyone moved into position, the quiet shuffle of shoes on the grass interrupted only by a light but chilly breeze. I shivered a little.

Winter was going to be coming sooner, and stronger, here than what I was used to from back home.

“Now then, listen closely: stick out your right hand over your broom,” Madam Hooch continued and we all followed suit, “Then, in a commanding tone, say ‘UP.’” She made a motion for us to go on, and I turned my attention to the accursed thing at my feet. Voices sounded all throughout the training grounds, some followed by cheerful laughs as they achieved success.

I concentrated, trying to reclaim the intense focus in my mind McGonagall had recommended I try utilizing when attempting spellcasting, and snorted.

“Please,” I sighed earnestly. Then, “Up!”

Amazingly, inexplicably, the broom shot right into my hand. It was so forthcoming in its obedience to my voice that I accidentally said a swear. Madam Hooch tweeted her whistle at me, a measure I felt was rather unnecessary, and told me I’d lost Ravenclaw a house point. A few of my peers, who had overheard, chastised me.

“You may now mount your brooms like so,” Madam Hooch demonstrated on her own impressive-looking model, “ _Do not_ kick off until my whistle.”

She redirected her attention to me while the others got comfortable and tested how to best keep their grip.

“I’m sorry, Professor. I was just a little shocked,” I confided, feeling her hawkish golden eyes pulling a truth out of me, “I’m not very good at magic, you see.”

Madam Hooch fixed me with a shrewd look, “You’re Abbey, aren’t you?”

“Yes ma’am, but I prefer Wil if you don’t mind,” I said. She nodded shortly.

“You’re still inexperienced. Magic isn’t something you can just suddenly do,” she said in tone marginally more receptive and quiet, “That said, commanding a broomstick isn’t the same as creating fire or levitating a feather.”

My mouth fell open a little from the realization, especially considering she’d figured out my exact line of worry.

“Your talents in magic might just lie outside wand waving.”

I wasn’t able to form any words of gratitude at her vote of confidence because, at that moment, a terrified wail sounded from the line of Gryffindors and an equally terrified boy was raising into the air and zipping about wildly. Madam Hooch was commanding him to come back down, but for all the control the boy had over his broom, he’s be just as likely to land on the ground as he would the canopy of trees in The Forbidden Forest.

He covered his eyes, losing any last bit of control he might have had, before shooting into the air some twenty feet and then immediately falling back to the ground. Only the broom didn’t come with him, and he’d landed in a heap with a bone-crunching _THUD_.

I couldn’t help but watch, feeling ashamedly like one of those people that slows down past a car accident only to see if there's something grisly to observe, as Madam Hooch hurried over to him and examined his wrist, which he tried to clutch closer like people in pain often try to do. Why do we always try to grab our wounds when touch would just make it hurt all that much worse? He’d need to go to the hospital wing; I’d already been there a few times, when I was trying to hide during meals. Poppy was sympathetic to me and would let me eat with her, if only to ensure I _was_ eating something.

“None of you are to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing,” Madam Hooch addressed the class and affirming my suspicions, “If I see any brooms off the ground, the one responsible will be expelled faster than they can say ‘Quidditch.’”

To my absolute horror, she started to turn and lead the boy back towards the castle. It would take her forever to get there and back! There is no way we should all be allowed to stand by these deathtraps unsupervised. After a hasty internal debate, I grabbed up my bag and ran after her.

“Professor!” I called about halfway up the slopes to the castle. Madam Hooch turned her head to me but kept moving.

“You should be down on the training grounds with your class,” she said, lips tight with irritation, “Return to them and then stay still.”

“Ma’am, I think you should stay with the class,” I persisted and her eyes narrowed dangerously. I tried to dredge up a bit of boldness from within me and scowled, “If you think something worse isn’t going to happen with you gone, you’re underestimating them.”

And, as if to confirm my assertions, there was a collective gasp from the training grounds.

"I take it you're also not too keen on continuing today's flying lesson?" Madam Hooch asked perceptively. I looked a little guilty, but nodded regardless. 

"Yes, Professor."

"And you know how to get there? You've been there before?" she continued, to which I again nodded.

"Yes, Professor. I know the fastest way."

“Take him, then,” she said, passing the boy over to me and leaving without further instruction.

It was awkward helping a boy even larger than me up the slope, which he perhaps realized as he didn’t let me struggle with his arm over my shoulders for very long. We continued on, separately and in silence, as I contemplated how I didn’t even know his name. He might have been mulling the same thought over, because he didn’t seem too desperately enthusiastic on starting a conversation either. I would soundlessly point our way once we were inside the castle proper and we were up in the hospital wing before long. I pushed open the massive door for him, trying to give him a small look of encouragement as he uselessly tried to rid his face of tears.

“Wilhelmina, I will not allow you to skip two meals in one day!” Poppy castigated me as soon as I’d entered the room.

“I’m helping someone!” I pouted while leading the boy through the doorway. Poppy, her eyes wide with surprise, rushed over and guided us to the nearest bed. She said his wrist was broken, but not badly so. All that was needed was a little healing magic, which she administered right away.

“You two can go back to your flying lesson if you’d like,” she suggested, but we both vehemently shook our heads, “Or you can stay here to recoup until your next period.”

With that, she went to check on a few other occupants in the hospital before settling behind her desk to attend to some paperwork. I watched her momentarily before deciding I really should say something to the poor boy now that his tears had stopped. I opened my mouth when—

“So is your name Wilhelmina?” he asked me, looking at my face before diverting his gaze. I blinked.

“Well, yes. But I usually prefer going by a nickname.”

“Oh, is it Mina?” he asked with a small smile, which disappeared when I snorted sardonically.

“Only my dad calls me Mina,” I said, but, at the look of his face, stopped short of saying that I hated it, “You can too, though. If you’d like.”

“I’m Neville,” he said by way of reply, his smile returning. In the presence of such a sincere kindness, I couldn't help but copy him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Neville.”

I’d said that to plenty of people by now—mostly my teachers—but this might have been the first time I _really_ meant it.

**Author's Note:**

> Link to my tumblr! Come say hey. I'm more social that my OCs.  
> https://alien-ariel7.tumblr.com/


End file.
